Youth is a War
by morningmagpie
Summary: After the war, George starts his quest for happiness, enlisting none other than Hogwarts's bookworm to help him win it back. What happens when this unlikely pair start to fall for each other? And how will it complicate the relationships they already have?
1. One: The Funeral

**Author's Note**: Another George/Hermione story. This one is going to be longer; possibly in the ten chapter range. I hope you enjoy and please review if you like. Title is stolen from a very good Awkward Stage song (if you've got the time, look 'em up; they can make my melancholy day anytime).

**Youth is a War**

Hermione Granger waits upstairs, pacing the floor, her arms swinging uselessly in tune to the music playing downstairs. She can hear their voices, sucked up from the floorboards and thrown upward into her ears. She wishes that they hadn't chosen to play something here; it seems morbid to be listening to some jaunty tune when she's about to go downstairs and deliver a eulogy.

She pulls at her hair in hopes of calming down; it feels as though her heart is about to slam up and out of her throat. Her eyes are dangerously near the point of leaking out old tears but she blinks furiously and hopes to Merlin that she doesn't cry during the funeral. She doesn't want George to see it.

She's gone down the stairs by now, wishing to at least catch a glimpse of someone who might offer some sort of comfort but Ginny is standing off in the corner with Harry's arms around her shuddering form, her tears silent, and Ron is sitting at the table, wearing his ashen look of grief.

She doesn't see George anywhere. She looks over the crowd in hopes of seeing a shock of red hair that's grown too long. Disappointed after not seeing him, Hermione makes her way over to the coach and plunks down, preparing herself to go outside and say things about Fred that she had never known until several minutes ago, when she'd been furiously scrubbing at the angry tears that had been streaming down her face, enraged and nearly hysterical with the thoughts that she would be reading words at a boy's funeral whom she had only partially known, and finding herself stupidly wishing that she had bothered to laugh at more of his jokes.

* * *

George had come to her in the middle of the night several days ago with a small slip of parchment in his hands, had stopped her in the hallway just outside of his bedroom, for he never went in there alone anymore, and asked her if she would read what was written on it at the funeral.

"I would do it, Hermione, but I just don't think I can."

And then his face had crumpled, and because she'd never seen a person's face genuinely break open in front of her, she'd wanted so badly to wrap him up in her arms and hold him in place like that for weeks. But they just stood there in the dark, regarding one another with looks that she realized would one day, years from that moment, cause her to fold herself up and wail into the sheets on her bed. As the minutes passed, and neither of them said a word, she thought of how simple all of it had seemed, the war's ending, because Harry had not died and neither had Ron, but George was walking around in the carcass of his brother's memory, a morbid mental image that made everyone look around for Fred after George stumbled into the room. She finally looked up at George then and he was still waiting for her answer and even in the dim light of the hallway, she could make out the redness around his eyes. So she'd nodded and taken the parchment from his hand, briefly wrapping her fingers around his and finding a small pleasure in the fact that his hands were warm. And then she'd fled to the room she was sharing with Ginny, thanking gods she no longer felt any affection for that her friend had decided to spend this night with Harry. She slammed the door behind her, momentarily forgetting that she was in a house with nearly ten other people, and then slumped to the floor, falling over and pressing her face against the floorboards until she could feel her screams reverberating underneath her.

When the door dug slightly into her back, she scuttled away from it and rolled onto her other side to see who had opened it. It was George: she could tell by the build and the slight smell of Firewhiskey laced in his hair. Without a word, he sat down next to her on the floor and picked her up off it, brought her to his chest and then wrapped his arms around her waist until she felt the vibrations of his sobs against her chest. The piece of parchment was still clasped in her hand as she wrapped her fingers around his forearm and she knew that he could feel it scratching him. She wondered momentarily if her hair was bothering him so she asked him, the first thing she had said since he'd told her he would not be able to say what was written on the paper in her hands.

He'd laughed softly against her neck, something that sounded both familiar and strange, a laugh that would grow to be his new one. She felt a burgeoning happiness and she'd smiled into his shirt while he said that he hadn't even noticed.

She'd woken to find herself still wrapped up in an embrace on the floor, the piece of parchment lying a few centimeters away from her open hand. From where she was, she could make out the words:

_Out of everyone, I never expected to lose you. I thought that we would go on to master every prank we could, that we would be right old bachelors until the both of us fell in love and got married and moved in across from each other and had a bunch of kids and trained them for our own little Quidditch teams. I thought that you would be here when there were funerals, telling me that story about how we spiked the punch at the last one we went to. I never thought you wouldn't be. _

_

* * *

_

A quick slam of a door lifts her head. George walks into the room, his hands shoved into his pockets, his jacket crumpled. When he sits down next to her, she can once again smell Firewhiskey and wonders if it will become a part of his permanent smell, mixed in with the smell of gunpowder and leather.

"George?"

He doesn't even look up at her. "Please don't, Hermione. The last thing I need to hear right now is some speech about feelings."

She tries to conceal that she is affronted because she honestly does not want to make this day any harder for George than she knows it will be. But she places a hand above his wrist bone and curls her fingers around it, hoping to Merlin that he'll figure out what she's trying to say. He looks at her and places a hand above hers and squeezes, and she knows that he understands. _I'm going to be around for you, George Weasley_, says the tentative hold on his wrist. _I'm not going to let this destroy you. _And his reply in kind is that he knows, because you cannot spend a night crying in another person's arms without something like this happening.

"I just wanted to say that Fred would have liked what you wrote," Hermione says and it hurts to say Fred's name, especially when she sees George wince after it's come out of her mouth, but she knows that Fred would not be able to stand it if no one was able to say his name out loud. "Especially the bit about the Quidditch team."

George sort of chuckles at that and Hermione feels as though she's just single-handedly liberated house elves. Her hand is still on his wrist and she rubs her thumb against his skin for a moment and then breaks the contact and heads into an empty room so she can reread the words, memorize them, make them knowledge, fact, and therefore much easier for her to say.

But when she's alone in the room, all she can remember is what George had done the day after the war had ended, how he'd stood in the doorway of his shop for hours until she, unlike everyone else, who said wearily that she he needed to be left alone, finally went over to get him. He'd told her to leave but she'd insisted and had finally managed to Apparate him back to the Burrow with her, reluctantly filling a canter with Firewhiskey, knowing that he needed the numbness.

She'd stopped by the shop later that night, staring at the scorch marks in the floor, battle scars from new experiments. She'd been able to smell some of the ingredients used for the Canary Creams; something like lemon and vanilla mixed in with the rest of the room. There was the unmistakable scent of cologne and Hermione had allowed herself to giggle at the name when she'd picked up the bottle – _Musky Warlock (She'll Be Bewitched By You!)_. Faintly, she could remember Fred spritzing some on himself before Fleur and Bill's wedding. She could remember thinking how strange it was to feel such an insurmountable sadness at such a small memory and having to put the bottle back down because she did not trust her shaking fingers to hold it up.

George walks into the room then and announces that it's time for all of them to go outside. Once again, Hermione places her hand on his wrist and gently smoothes a thumb over his skin. He smiles weakly.

"I'll be fine, 'Mione. Don't worry about Your Holeliness."

She laughs at the bad joke just to make him feel a bit better and the two of them walk outside. George goes to sit by Ginny and after murmuring something to her, he puts an arm around her shoulders. Hermione can see that it's taking every bit of his energy to do it.

When she stands up to say what George wrote, perhaps weeks before, perhaps the night after Fred had died, and she thinks for a moment that she can't do it. That she didn't even know Fred, hardly at all, not the way Angelina or Katie or Jordan did, and that they should be here reciting this rather than her. That she doesn't understand why George even asked her in the first place, since they had never been particularly close, not until they'd sobbed on Ginny's floor two nights ago. That she might just pass out in the middle of the aisle or start screaming hysterically or start sobbing halfway through it and have to be taken to her seat. She glances over at George, who's trying very hard not to do anything, it seems; his jaw is set and his eyes are hollow and she tries to quell her dizzying thoughts, because she knows that he needs to hear someone say it and if it has to be her, she can surely hold it together for several seconds.

"I'll be saying a few words for George Weasley."

And she says them, and some people laugh about the Quidditch team, but everyone is silent after she says the last word. She hasn't cried, thank Merlin, and she hasn't fallen to pieces in front of everyone. Looking down at the piece of parchment in her hands, she peeks a glance at George, not quite sure what to do with it. She tilts her head to the hole in the ground and he nods. Carefully, she lowers the small bit of paper into the ground next to the coffin, trying not to think that inside of it is Fred, silent, not laughing, irrevocably _gone_, and then turns to go back to her seat.

Later, the sun has slid underneath the horizon and the Burrow is shadowy and morose. Most of the Weasleys have gone to bed and Hermione is one of the few people still up. She's sitting down in the kitchen, sipping tea that doesn't really taste like much but she wants to feel the warmth in her stomach and she's really not in the mood for alcohol. For a moment, she thinks she hears something from outside, as if someone is singing or talking. Unable to stay still, she grabs her wand from the counter and heads out the door.

George is sitting on the ground near Fred's grave; above him, the tree's branches sway slightly in the summer breeze. He is crying softly, his hands covering his face.

"George?"

His head jerks up and Hermione can see the redness around his eyes and the dumb, horrific pain in his face.

"I hadn't said goodbye properly." His voice cracks. "Bastard would want a proper send-off."

And he pulls a small WWW firecracker out of his pocket and lights it and the small pop of blue sparkles in front of both of them for a while, spelling out the words: _Fred Weasley was always the handsome twin._

Hermione laughs a little louder than she normally would have, but she's starved of laughter and she's tired of this overwhelming sadness that has crept into her chest. George laughs too, also a bit too loud, and when they smile together in the pale blue light, she can see in his eyes that he's counting on her to keep her promise.

"Always had to have the last say about that, he did," George says and then stands, brushing his trousers off. The two of them hover next to the grave for a moment and Hermione finds her voice, saying what she's wanted to say ever since he'd given the parchment.

"George, if you need someone, I could help out at the shop."

His face falls a bit; the spark of laughter has vanished. Perhaps she had been wrong in her interpretation of their hands, for they were only hands, not minds, and they could not form thoughts, and she was incredibly dimwitted for thinking that she already knew him.

"I mean, I can understand if you wouldn't want me there, because I'm not really much fun. I'd probably be running off at the mouth about how many school rules you'd be breaking by selling students –"

"Hermione." He smiles a little at her babbling. "I'd love the help."

He sets off another firecracker: a red little light that hovers over the grave and doesn't go out.

"Besides, Fred would go bloody mental if I let the shop go."

**End Notes:** I know, I know, I rewrite freakin' EVERYTHING. But I wanted to amp this story up a bit, and make it sound a little less teen drama and a bit more, I dunno, "adult". Bear with me all you loyal readers (and new ones! I love new ones!) because I just want this story to have some meaning behind it, because George is not going to be able to get over the death of his twin very easily. So, strap yourselves in, loves. It's bound to be one hell of a ride.


	2. Two: Australia

**Chapter Two: Australia**

**One Year Later**

Ever since Fred's funeral, and perhaps ever since the beginning of the war, Hermione has been dreading making the trip to Australia. She can't quite pinpoint what has her waking up in the middle of the night, but she knows that she's afraid, for fear is one emotion that she can identify quite easily. Bother all of the others (what good are they, honestly? Complicating things and making people doubt themselves – bloody emotions never come in handy anyway; you can't read them like a book) because she knows fear very well; it's kept her company these past couple of years.

But she thinks that it might be a bit much to be so afraid now, standing in front of the shop and debating exactly how she's going to tell George that she'll be away for a few days. She doesn't doubt that he'll give her the time off; no, it isn't that. She's mostly afraid that of what he might do when she's away, because she's walked in on more than one of his love affairs with a bottle of Firewhiskey. Hermione isn't sure if he knows that she's aware of the witches he brings home with him every weekend, silly, ridiculous girls who gasp when they see his gutted expression and his missing ear ("But you look so distinguished!") or if he has any idea that she's been the one taking the sheets off of the mirrors around his flat.

Even if he did know, she's not too sure that he would even care, because he's been slipping further and further underneath this haze of grief and she hasn't known what to do about it. Molly and Arthur have gazed at him with defeat in their eyes and later implored her to help him as best she could, for she seemed to be the only one he confided in anymore. This puzzles her as well, sometimes, because she and George have never been that close before. But as these past months had slowly passed by, she'd spent much of her time over at the shop, helping George clean it (during the War, Death Eaters had searched it, upturning barrels and charring the floor, scattering innocuous papers of new products across the room) and ignoring a quiet sob if she heard one. She'd restocked the shelves and carried out the old inventions that George didn't want to touch; she'd taken care of the accounting books and paid off the money they owed. She'd even redecorated his flat upstairs, not mentioning to George that it wasn't right to have thrown all of Fred's belongings into the bin.

If she's honest with herself, she's flattered that she's the one he has chosen to confide in. Because she likes him, not romantically, just likes the way that he laughs whenever he's with her. Likes the fact that they don't attend the post-war celebrations anymore, that they've instead taken to spending those nights in the flat that she hastily purchased, watching Muggle films and drinking too much Firewhiskey. Likes that she was wrong about him, that he's not simply a joker, that's he's actually quite sensible and intelligent, for you'd have to be with all of those inventions, but maybe that was a result of Fred's death. So she feels somewhat guilty, wondering if she only likes the George that has emerged from the war, instead of the smiling, mischievous one who inhabited his and Fred's joke shop.

The shop bell tinkles and Hermione sees the brief outline of a person enter the shop and it shoves her out of her reverie. She squares her shoulders and opens the shop door and is instantly assaulted by a thick purple smoke. Coughing, she reaches down for her wand and clears the air. George is standing behind the counter with a sheepish expression on his face, purple ink spreading out across his cheeks like blush. The customer stands off to the side, arms spread out in front of them as if to ward off the attack.

Hermione immediately begins apologizing, siphoning the ink off George's face quickly before attending to the disgruntled customer, who shakes his head furiously, muttering oaths under his breath until George tells him to shove off. He leaves with several other choice words, to which George responds with a swift slam of the door.

"Right git that one was. Glad he'd showed himself the door."

Hermione finds herself smiling. "What was that stuff anyhow?"

George glances down at the bottle in his hands and smirks. "Haven't got a clue. Found it in the cabinet this morning. Reckon Fred left it there for someone to open."

The smile fades, as it always does, the way it had when she'd mistakenly called out Fred's name when she'd wanted to catch George's attention from across the shop. They'd been teasing each other, laughing in that hollow way that is often found in people who think that laughing after a death is a sick thing to do. And his smile had just slipped off, smacked the floor with a resounding crash, shattering every bit of happiness that might have clung to the room. Hermione had seen the improbability of apologizing, that it would have done more harm than good, and she'd made a horrible noise instead, a sound like a choked sob that George had only ignored.

George places the bottle back on the shelf behind the counter, the place where he always stores the things that he likes the best; the items that he will never say remind him of Fred. But she knows that they do, that all of those blasted items, with their chipped caps and charred wrappers, are the only reminder that Fred had even been in this place at all.

Hermione notices that his hair is still shaggier than she's ever seen it and she's been dying to tell him to get a haircut for weeks now. She supposes that he's grown it out to hide the hole on the side of his head; wonders for a moment if that too reminds him of Fred's death – his lingering mark of difference, that when Fred died they were no longer the same.

"George?"

He turns to her and she wishes that she would stop twisting her hands.

"Yes?"

"I need some time off. Perhaps a week? I don't think I'll need much more time than that."

"And where are you off to?"

"I have to find my parents in Australia."

He runs a hand through his hair and says, "Bloody hell, I forgot about that. Ron told us when he left you and Harry there for a bit. Couldn't stop talking about you, really. Fred and I thought about hexing his mouth shut but we figured the two of you wouldn't appreciate that later on."

Hermione blushes and tries to cover it up by admonishing George for thinking that. He smirks a little bit; one of the things that she thinks keeps him going is teasing her about Ron.

"How are you and Ron, by the way?"

"We're fine, I suppose." She isn't particularly keen on this topic at the moment. She can't remember the last time she and Ron kissed – had it really been since the end of the war? Have they grown apart already? But she sees him as often as she sees Harry, for they're both off for Auror training and if she does see them, it's at the same time and perhaps once a month. "It's just, well; I don't really know what we are. He hasn't made any –"

"Moves?"

"Well, yes." And she blushes again, cursing the fact that she can't make her face pretend indifference. "He hasn't kissed me again since that night and he hasn't even… well, he hasn't even asked me out for a date. Or something," she finishes lamely and George smiles gently.

"After you snogged him senseless, he hasn't tried to kiss you again?"

"And that's just it, George!_ I_ was the one to snog _him_! It's always been me taking the first step in our relationship and I wouldn't mind if he took the initiative for once."

George looks at her quizzically, as if he's just noticed her, and that doesn't make a bit of sense, but he smiles again (she hasn't seen him smile this much in at least a week) and she really can't care less if there's no logic behind it.

"He'll figure it out. He's mad about you; you saw how he got about Krum and McLaggen. One of these days, he'll pull his head out of his arse and ask you out properly. Just give him some time."

"Thanks, George."

"Anytime." He pauses and asks pointedly, "Does Ronniekins know you're going to Australia?"

Hermione wishes that she were little again and that glancing down at one's shoes was still a valid way of working one's way out of a conversation.

"Yes, he knows about it. He wants to go with me."

"Is he?"

"No. I said I wanted to go alone. He wouldn't be able to come with me anyway; he's busy with training."

"Alone?" George starts and doesn't even acknowledge the rest of her sentence. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is, Hermione? Do you have any idea what could happen to you if someone found out, someone who wanted to hurt you –"

"George," Hermione cuts him off, irritated. "I can handle myself, thank you. I'm not helpless."

"I'm not saying that you are. I just think that it's too much of a risk. What if someone like Bellatrix Lestrange –"

At the sound of her name, Hermione bristles and feels something unpleasant trickle into her stomach. She'd hoped he would never find out about what happened at Malfoy Manor but if she is to be honest with herself, it would be impossible for him not to know. Has he seen the scars on her forearms from where she ripped her own skin with her nails? Has he heard her screaming in the middle of the night; does he sense it?

"George Weasley, I am completely capable of taking care of myself. The war barely touched Australia; I'll go, collect my parents, come back, and everything will be as it was. Now, are you going to give me a few days off or not?"

He watches her for a while, contemplating, and he looks thoughtful and somewhat puzzled, as if he wants to sort her out.

"On one condition," George says, after a long and uncomfortable pause.

Hermione sighs. "And what's that?"

"That I'm able to come with you."

It is Hermione's turn to start. She doesn't need anyone to come with her; she can't stand the thought of someone watching her cry if she can't undo the spell.

"George –"

"Before you say no, I promise that I won't tell Ron."

"What does he even have to do with this?"

"He's not going to be thrilled that I went with you and he didn't."

She smiles slightly. "You're talking about this like I'm going to say yes."

"And I know you will. See you in the morning."

* * *

The next morning, Hermione wakes up to the sound of rain falling on her window. She rolls over and throws the covers up over her head, hoping to block out the suddenly thunderous noise of water against her flat's walls. She turns on her side and watches the rain slide down her window panes, remembering how she'd loved the rain as a child, how rain had so long ago seemed as though it were cleaning the earth, wiping away all of the bad.

She trips out of bed and runs a hand through her hair, noticing with slight satisfaction that it's lying a bit flatter than usual. She goes to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, wondering if she should add some Pepper-Up; she fumbles through the cabinets in search of the bottle.

A crack sounds from outside her flat and she bangs her head against the door of the cupboard in shock. She knows it is George; his characteristic crack of Apparition is still as loud as it ever was.

Sure enough, he walks into the room only a moment later, wearing jeans and a scruffy blue t-shirt that looks as though he hasn't washed it for a while. His face is better shaved than she has seen; he has the barest hint of stubble on his jaw line. He's holding a windbreaker in one hand and what looks to be a sack lunch in the other.

"Morning, sunshine," he says, pulling up a chair and sitting beside her as she continues to bustle around the cupboard, searching futilely for the Pepper-Up. Sighing, Hermione decides that it's probably best to give up.

"G'morning. What are you doing here?"

"I'm coming with you, if you hadn't noticed."

"I know that. Why so early?"

He has the decency to look a little sheepish. "So you couldn't back out."

Hermione tries to look annoyed but ruins it by laughing. "You think highly of me, don't you, George Weasley?"

He shrugs and then winks. "You ready to go?"

She doesn't answer him immediately, because truthfully, she isn't. She hasn't been ready ever since she erased their memory of her two years ago. What if the Death Eaters had found her parents anyway? What if they didn't want anything to do with her because of what'd she'd done? What if they didn't want to come back?

"Hermione? You all right?"

George waits for her to say something, noting that the look on her face reminds him of the look he sees in the mirror every morning, before he charms it to no longer give off a reflection.

"Merlin, everything would have been so much simpler if this war had never happened."

And there's nothing he can say to that, because it's true, and because it's the only thing he's heard for this past year that makes much sense to him. _Yes, Hermione,_ he thinks, _how wonderful it would be if none of it had happened at all._

* * *

They stand outside of the small house for several minutes. Hermione can feel her heart against her ribs; she can almost taste blood in her throat. George is squeezing her hand and she thinks that he's about to squeeze her fingers off, one by one, and she'll have to stand in front of this house with her bloody hand, crying, unable to hold her wand.

She knocks on the door and waits for what seems to be another two years and George is still squeezing the life out of her hands but she does not want him to let go. A woman answers it a few moments later, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. Everything seems to still; the air outside could have been liquid, the sky could have suddenly become solid, the lawn could have evaporated into gas, and Hermione would not have noticed, for she is staring at her own eyes, brown eyes that are drawn together with slight confusion. The woman starts to speak and Hermione reverses the spell under her breath, before she has a chance to hear the familiar voice, before she can remember just how much she loved hearing it sing her to sleep.

Her father hears the scream from the living room and hurries to see what has happened. He sees his wife hugging a strange girl and a man with red hair still holding onto the girl's hand. He notices that she's holding what he thinks is merely a stick – what could this girl want with it – and she waves it across his face and the recognition comes sweeping into his eyes like wind.

He envelopes her in his arms and George has to let go of her hand; he steps to the side while they stand there in the doorway like that. He wonders if it would do any of those Death Eaters any good to see this, if Malfoy would care more if he saw Hermione Granger wrapping her arms around her family as though they were grounding her to this earth.

The Grangers invite both of them in and George looks around the room, notices on the coffee table a notebook with a list of names on it. He picks it up and sees that all of the names begin with an H; Harriet, Heather, Helen, Hillary, Holly, Hannah. At the bottom is Hermione's name, circled with black ink.

Mrs. Granger fixes them tea and George notices a slight tension in the room, for how could this woman not find it somewhat strange that her only daughter erased herself from her memory? But she still listens patiently while Hermione cries, as she muddles her way through the explanations of how the war had ended, why she'd had to do it. Sometimes, George supplies a bit of information to make it easier on her; Hermione's mother often glances at him, he notices and she often smiles from her spot by the window, as if knows something he doesn't. Hermione smiles at him a few times during the conversation and this only gives Mrs. Granger another reason to watch him as he smiles back at her.

When she asks George if he is the Ron Weasley they have heard so much about, he almost wants to say yes, even though he has a very good feeling that she's known he wasn't all along.

* * *

**End Notes**: A development of the George/Hermione relationship. And hooray for Hermione's mum, figuring George out before he even knows what's going on himself. Previews of coming attractions: A Ron/Hermione date! And some serious think-age on Georgie's end.


	3. Three: A Date

**Chapter Three: A Date**

The only time George Weasley had ever felt any resentment towards his twin was when he was five years old. It was the first time he'd recognized that everyone referred to him and Fred as "FredandGeorge". Just one single, slurred word in which Fred's name always came first. After he'd realized it for what it was, that Fred would always come before him, he'd accepted it. He'd come to like it. Fred was the leader and that was that.

He could even remember Hermione asking him about it when she was twelve, buck-toothed and awkward, with so much bossiness that he and Fred had been surprised that Ron found her likeable at all. She'd questioned him about whether or not he was bothered by the fact that no one seemed to be able to tell them apart or that no one really cared to. And George Weasley had been able to safely say that it didn't bother him in the least. Because it didn't; he and Fred came together. What was so hard to get about that?

Now, when he doesn't hear Fred's name in front of his own, it feels like a huge anvil, slamming down on his chest.

* * *

Hermione Granger is pretty. True, she has that unmanageable hair that George imagines would get in the way if you tried to kiss her, but she has those soft eyes that hold truth and knowledge and happiness inside of them like a cup filled to the brim.

George has never really acknowledged it before; he's always thought that Ron was slightly barmy when it came to the girls he found attractive (he would _never_ let him live down Won-Won). But after Hermione had stepped forward to help out at the shop, after he'd spent the past year with her hovering near his shoulder, prodding him to laugh and smile, reminding him that he still had so many things to live for, he'd come to the conclusion one morning that she was incredibly, well, pleasing to look at.

After all, he can't just come out and say it. She _is_ the love interest of his younger brother. But shouldn't he at least be allowed to find the girl attractive? If anything, George figures that Ron should take it as a compliment, but he also knows his brother, and the furthest thing from Ron's mind would be to consider George looking favorably at Hermione Granger as a compliment.

Over these past couple of months, though, he's begun to realize just how stupid he had been to not look at her before in the way he does now. True, she's still bossy and occasionally uptight, but the war had, surprisingly, calmed her down quite a bit. She seems to understand now, as he's taken to telling her on most days, that people need to break a few rules just to ease the tension and she smiles whenever he says it, says that it's his mantra. He's even thought about having her spell it out nicely in her handwriting and placing it above the door of the shop. She laughs whenever he suggests it but George still thinks he might find it there one day.

She's bound to do something silly like that, because she's already pranked him once, vaporized that love potion and put it in his cologne, so when he spritzed himself with the stuff, he'd fallen in love with the closest living thing in sight. Unfortunately for him, the first person he'd seen was Pansy Parkinson, walking down the street with her nose tilted up in the air, trying to look unaffected by the dirty looks people were shooting as she walked by. And then George had come bounding over to her like a stranded puppy, darting around her with such a look of adoration on his face that he was later surprised his face had been even capable of making such an expression. But Pansy, perhaps because people were watching, and perhaps because she'd softened a bit since the news of her mother's execution at the hands of the Death Eaters had reached her ears, escorted George back to the shop. He'd tumbled into the awaiting arms of Hermione, who began laughing hysterically as he recited several sonnets and even sang a limerick about Pansy's hair. The effects had worn off as he was on the roof, arms outstretched, just about to scream up to the sky that he loved – but he couldn't say it because his mouth suddenly felt as though it had been encrusted with sand and when he glanced down at Hermione, she smiled cheekily at him, winked, and took his picture.

He hasn't really forgiven her for that. But then again, he also thinks it is the coolest damn thing Hermione Granger has ever done. She'd even gone to the trouble of gathering the entire Weasley family so they could watch her memory of the incident in a Pensieve. Even Percy had laughed.

So yes, George is beginning to think twice about Hermione Granger. He doesn't know if she did that because she wanted to see him smile again (and he can't lie, it's something he doesn't do much of nowadays) or if she'd merely wanted to distract everyone from the painfully dismal setting of post-war life.

Whatever the reason, he's still never really thanked her for it. But George thinks he is good enough friends with her now to understand that she doesn't need to be thanked. She had simply been glad to do it.

And that is a very dangerous thing to realize about a person, that they are willing to do something for you without hearing compliments on their behalf. That they don't mind stepping forward and pulling you out of the rut you didn't even know you'd fallen into. It is, normally – at least in George's experience – the first step towards falling for someone.

* * *

**Three Weeks Later**

"Hermione, you're going to look fine in whatever you wear. If Ronnie can't see that, then he's a git. Which he already is, so, on second thought, maybe you _are_ in trouble."

Hermione is standing in front of the mirror, twirling and sashaying her hips to see what her reflection looks like. In George's opinion, she looks quite nice, what with the fact that her hair's been tamed and she's wearing that dress that he's never bothered mentioning to her that he likes.

She glares at him in the mirror. "George Weasley, you are not helping at all. I am trying to remain calm throughout this entire experience and you're sitting there telling me my date is a ponce."

"I'm actually saying he's a git. Ponce is far more derogatory."

He has to dodge the pillow she chucks at him. George laughs, thinks that he kind of enjoys when she pretends to be so fed up with him, likes the way her eyes flash with that mischievous glint, ready to have a go at him. Perhaps he should give bookish girls a try; he's found that they spar the best.

"You look smashing and you know it, Mione. Now come on, what's there to worry about?"

She bites her lip and nervously runs a hand over her hair, smoothing down her already well-coiffed hairdo. "You know I despise that nickname, George."

"Yes, because calling me Georgie is_ so_ much better."

"I only call you that because Fred used to," she says hotly.

"What makes you think that will make me want to hear it?"

She opens her mouth to retort, he thinks, or maybe to apologize, but Ginny comes into the room and interrupts them, shoving a mug into both of their hands, giving him a curious gaze as her back is turned to Hermione.

"So," Ginny begins, sitting down next to Hermione and not responding to the constant glances George is sending her way (_What? What the hell was that look for, Gin_?), "I think Ron's going to be here in a few. You nervous?"

Hermione shoots her a weak glare but her heart doesn't seem to be in it. She instead glares into her cup. "I shouldn't be because I've known him for so long. But now…. Now it's just so much more complicated. What if we don't work? Will we still be friends? Will Harry pick sides? Will we –"

Here, George knows he has to interrupt, simply to save the sanity of the people in the room. Ginny in particular is starting to look a little overwhelmed.

"Hermione, you are the only person I know who worries this much before a first date. Everyone knows that you and Ron were meant to be together ever since you told him he had dirt on his nose."

For some reason, that doesn't really make him feel any better. So he adds, somewhat selfishly he recalls later, "And if that git does anything to make you feel awful tonight, don't hesitate in coming to see one of us, because we're bound to make you feel loads better than he ever does."

Hermione smiles weakly and seems to compose herself before Ron comes into the room, carrying tulips in his hand, which George knows to be Hermione's favorite flower. She beams when she sees them, even though a few of them are a little wilted. Before she leaves, she half turns and Ginny gives her the thumbs up, while George only manages a smile that he's sure looks more like a grimace.

After they've gone, and the door has shut and he can hear their laughter out in the street, fading slowly until he hears their crack of Apparition, his sister looks at him pointedly and says, "That would be incredibly stupid."

George can't help but be puzzled; he wonders if every bloke who has a sister is as confused as he is by their cryptic remarks. "_What_ would be?"

"Fancying her."

"What? You think I fancy Hermione? Have you started hanging out with Loony Lovegood so often that you now think any crackpot idea is plausible? What are you going to say next? That Nargles actually exist?"

"Her name is _Luna_," Ginny says rather acidly, "and yes, I think you sort of fancy her."

"You're crazy," George splutters, because he can't really think of an excuse. And also because he's pretty sure that he _does_ fancy Hermione Granger, and not in that manageable sort of way, where he could ignore the fact that he often had very dirty thoughts about his brother's girlfriend, but in that insurmountable way where he can't remember anything good about this past year that hasn't involved her.

Merlin's beard, she'd stood outside of the shop for hours that first night, standing there in her ripped jeans and blood-spattered shirt, calling his name and waiting, calling out until she'd lost her voice. And then she'd held onto him in the middle of that night before the funeral, cried into his shirt and smoothed his hair and promised him with that embrace that she would not let him go through this alone. She'd arrived at the shop the next day, ready to work, dressed in a jumper and jeans; cleaned the shop with him for five days straight, ignored his sobs because she'd known that he could not cry in front of her again. They'd laughed over Firewhiskey, laughed too hard and for too long until they both fell asleep on the couch, slumped forward and covered with the blankets that Hermione insisted on knitting by hand.

She ignored the string of women he brought home with him, even though he saw it in her face that she hated them, that when they came down the stairs in the morning she was there to greet them with a cold smile and a face that plainly said that none of them deserved him.

He often imagined what it might be like to hold onto her in the middle of the night. He thought of it happening during one of those nights in her kitchen, when she would be sitting across from him and shaking in laughter, and for a moment, he'd feel the way he had before Fred died.

Ginny wraps a hand around his wrist, smiles softly. "I'm just warning you. Ron might kill you if he thinks you're starting to like her."

"But I don't, Gin."And all he can hear in his head is, _But I can't. I can't like her. _

"Keep telling yourself that, love, and you might start believing it one of these days." She gets up to hug him goodbye, murmuring in his ear that he's already in too deep. She lets him go and walks down the steps of his flat, humming something that sounds faintly like that Muggle song that Hermione likes so much. If memory serves, George believes that the song is called _Martha, My Dear_ and it's by some band called The Beetles, which he thinks is a strange name for a band. Whenever he thinks of beetles, he thinks of potions and then he thinks of Snape. Still, he liked the song when Hermione had shown it to him. She'd beamed for about a week when he asked her to play the Beetles in the shop whenever they had down time.

The faint crack of Ginny's Disapparition jolts him out of his thoughts and George goes into the kitchen to fix himself a glass of Firewhiskey. He stares out the window at the darkness of Diagon Alley, remembers the first time he ever saw it, how he and Fred had gone running down the street, laughing and picking up anything they saw, how Mum had nearly gone into a fit trying to keep them close. He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at something and not remember Fred or if he'll ever be able to get over the fact that Fred is no longer there to remember it with him.

* * *

Hermione sits at the table and tries not to jiggle her foot up and down so often. She and Ron have been talking easily enough; she's asked him how Auror training is; he's replied that it's been going very well – he expects that he and Harry will be full-fledged Aurors by the end of the year. He's asked her about the shop, about George, and she's responded with a much too general answer, wonders if she's being cold and jiggles her foot furiously.

Sometimes, at moments like these, she wishes that she and Ron could be like Harry and Ginny and just realize that they're meant to be with each other, that they could push past all of this annoying awkwardness and fall into bed after this dinner, smiling against the other's skin. For she's wanted to sleep with Ron ever since she placed her lips on his, for she's a nineteen year old girl who's loved this boy across from her for what must be almost five years now and it would be strange for her to not want to know what it would be like to wake up next to him. She reaches across the table and places her hand on his; he smiles and squeezes it.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"I've been meaning to mention that Harry and I won't be back till December. We'll be doing our field training in Germany."

He squeezes her hand again but she doesn't think it feels so nice now because she'd been hoping that she would at least see him a few more times before the summer ended. Hermione feels as though her whole body is thrumming, like some ridiculous time bomb, hopping and banging around in the pit of her stomach. She wonders if he would come back with her to her flat if she asked, wanting to at least feel his mouth on hers again, for she quite liked kissing him in that room so long ago.

"Oh." It's all she can get out because she is struck at that moment by another thought: Had he wanted to have dinner with her simply to tell her that he wouldn't be around for another six months?

"We can pick up where we left off when I get home, Hermione."

"How long have you known that you'd be gone this long?"

"Well, for a few weeks, I'd have to say."

"Is that why you're in town, then? To tell me that you won't be here again for six months?"

"Of course not! I wanted to see you."

She wants to be mollified, she really wants to think that it's the truth, but for some nagging reason, she cannot and will not believe him.

"So what happens with us? We go on being boyfriend and girlfriend in name only while we carry on our life of chastity?"

"What are you on about?"

"You've kissed me once, Ronald," she says stiffly and she notices his ears redden in embarrassment.

"Hermione, I've not been home that often!"

"And the times you have been home, you simply haven't thought it fitting to kiss me?"

"Bloody hell, Hermione! Should I have snogged you at Fred's funeral?"

"Don't be vulgar."

Ron leans in so his voice can be better heard; their voices are growing in pitch and neither of them want the other diners to hear their conversation.

"I haven't kissed you because I haven't known whether you've wanted me to."

"_Excuse me_?"

"You spend all of your free time with George –"

"What is_ that_ supposed to mean?"

"- and you practically live at the shop, a place you would have hated a few years ago because of all the mayhem it could cause –"

"I _work_ there, you git –"

"- when you really should be working at the Ministry, doing what you love, fighting for elves' rights, instead of watching George slowly destroy himself."

Ron stops when he sees the look on Hermione's face, when he realizes what he's said. She stands, places the napkin on her empty plate, considers the glass of wine near it and wonders what it would feel like to throw the stuff all over Ron's face, but thinks better of it. He already has that apologetic look and Hermione doesn't even pretend to feel as though she wants to hear him say that he's sorry.

"Hermione – he needs to move on! It's been over a year now –"

She picks up her handbag, tries to calm the shaking in her hands; her anger, her fury, all of it suddenly too much for her; so badly does she want to slap her hand across his mouth for saying those things about George. Hermione straightens her back and looks at Ron, the boy with whom she has seen so much of the world and for a moment, she wishes that he could take it back, because she wants him to take her in his arms and tell her that someday the world will seem all right again.

"Please don't bother coming around tomorrow to say goodbye. Besides, I'd be much too busy watching your brother rot to notice."

* * *

George is still awake when he hears the rattle of the door downstairs, accompanied by the tinkle of the shop's bell. He is still slightly drunk from the Firewhiskey, drunk enough to consider that someone's trying to rob him, but then his brain pushes past all of that nonsense, remembers that he told Hermione to stop by if something happened with Ron. He scrambles off of the couch and heads down the stairs; he can hear her crying.

"Hermione?"

She is standing in front of the shelf where he keeps the trinkets that remind him of Fred, the one that is locked during the day so that no one can reach inside of it and touch them. Gently, she puts down the box of Puking Pastilles that she'd been holding, the first one he and Fred had ever made; he is fairly certain that she has no idea. Turning to him, he sees that she is crying.

"I cannot imagine how much you must miss him," she says and George considers telling her how much he does, holding her against his chest and crying into her hair as he had done a year ago.

Instead, he says nothing about it; instead, he tells her to come upstairs, that she can change into some of his pajamas, get out of that dress and heels.

When she's changed, the two of them sit on his couch, Hermione's face a mask of misery. She cannot stop crying it seems, for he heard her in his room, sobbing as she pulled on the pants that he now sees are far too big for her. George pulls her to him, rocking her against his chest.

"What happened, love?"

"He's leaving, George. He's leaving again for training and he won't be back again until December and all I wanted was_ one_ solid thing, to have Ron finally, to know that he wanted me, too. Is that ridiculous to hear, George? To hear me say that I only want Ron to love me?"

She's shaking against him; he's never seen Hermione Granger like this, inconsolable and quivering, completely undone by her sadness. "Should it be?"

But she doesn't seem to hear him. "Don't you hate the people who come in here with hardly anything to worry them? When they say they would be happy if only this would happen? Don't you hate them because they have the simplest wishes? Hate them for their attainable dreams when all you have is your damn _shelf_."

Hermione cries harder and she's gripping his shirt with her small fists, balling it up and then letting go.

"Hermione –"

"And Ron has the _nerve_ to say that you're not doing enough, that you need to move on, when all he wants is to have a nice uniform and travel around the globe with Harry, ignoring that everything here is a mess, is _still_ a mess, even though everyone tries so hard at pretending that it's not."

"Why the bloody hell did Ron say that?"

"He thinks I'm wasting my _potential _staying here in the shop with you, that I'm just watching you destroy yourself, even though I'd hoped that I'd been helping you – I have been helping you, haven't I, George? I promised you at Fred's funeral that I wouldn't let you do this to yourself, but I suppose that I haven't been doing enough, haven't been able to replace the girls and the Firewhiskey and the broken mirrors –"

George realizes that he's crying too, once again crying into her hair as he strokes it back away from her face.

* * *

**End Notes**: This chapter was incredibly hard for me to write, because I was crying quite a bit there at the end. I've been listening to **O Children** by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, a song featured in the latest Harry Potter film (the dance scene) and if you listen to the entire thing, I'll think you'll realize how incredibly melancholy the song is and why it's been making me cry like a lunatic. Another thing that made this so hard to write was the fact that I cannot imagine what it must have been like for George to go through losing his twin, for the very thought of losing my sister is unbearable.

**Martha, My Dear** is obviously by the Beatles (not the Beetles; poor wizarding world and their lack of Beatles music); it's such a wonderful song and it's so cute that I thought it worked well for Hermione and George.

Also, I know it seems terribly soon for George to be falling for Hermione, but the next chapter is a look into what happened during the past year we skipped and it explains quite a bit! As always, feel free to R&R!


	4. Four: The Past Year

**Author's Note: **All right, kiddies, here it is. Gosh darn, I really need to post more frequently; I think I might be losing some of you. As promised in the last chapter, here's a closer look at what happened during that year after Fred died. It's sort of an explanation as to why George values Hermione as much as he does.

**Chapter Four: The Past Year**

Hermione wakes to the sound of George's soft snores and the faint smell of stale Firewhiskey on his clothes. She's still clinging to his shirt; she notices that her fingers ache and she stretches them out across his chest. George wakes up then, notices her hands splayed out on his shirt and smiles sleepily at her. He runs a hand over her hair and says with a smirk, "Knew you'd fall for my rugged charm."

She blushes, feels her face heat up like a furnace and swats his chest before scrambling out of his embrace. He's grinning at her like an idiot and she's pretty sure that her mouth is caught up in the same expression, even though Hermione is fairly certain that it shouldn't be.

"Presumptuous git," she grumbles and he tosses the pillow at her.

As she's making tea in the kitchen, Hermione can hear George humming _Martha, My Dear_ and for the second time that day, she's positive that they're both smiling like lunatics.

* * *

They don't mention the night before; instead, they sit in uncomfortable silence as Hermione brews the hangover remedy and George racks his brain for conversation. He doesn't know whether or not he should mention that they spent last night curled up around each other for he has no idea what she'll say to that and he rather likes that it's simply a secret for now. Merlin knows it will probably explode into something cataclysmic sooner rather than later and George doesn't want to ruin whatever it is he has with Hermione right now.

Hermione places the mug in front of him, smiling somewhat more shyly than normal.

"When does Ron leave?" George finds himself asking, more out of concern for Hermione's well-being than curiosity. If anything, he wants to know just how much time he has to pummel Ron's arse into the ground.

"About a week, I think. We didn't really talk about it because I'd jumped down his throat before he got the chance to tell me." She smiles sheepishly and then pushes the mug closer to him. "You need to drink that. We start working in an hour."

To placate her, George takes a small sip, smiling at her from over the rim of the cup. Hermione tries to smile back but doesn't succeed; instead she pulls her lips into some sort of manic grimace and then, after realizing how pained her expression is, returns to staring at the burn marks on the wood.

"Mione-"

"You know I hate that nickname, George."

He rolls his eyes and continues. "What happened last night… you have nothing to be embarrassed about." Hermione opens her mouth to protest, he thinks, but he cuts her off. "Seriously, though. Whatever Ron said to you was inexcusable and you had every right to come here and talk to me about it. Remember? I said you could."

"I shouldn't have told you the things that Ron said about you."

George tries to shrug but he thinks that the gesture looks more like a comic tick than anything else. "Maybe I do need to move on. He's right, it's been over a year. I'll just get rid of those things on the shelf and –"

"No," Hermione says loudly, her eyes flashing. "You keep all of it, George. You keep every single item and_ fuck_ what Ron says, because he doesn't have a clue what you've had to go through, he doesn't know what it's like to lose someone that important. I'll rip him apart myself if he ever says anything like that again –"

"Merlin's pants, Hermione. I wouldn't want to come across you when you're angry." He tries to keep his face stern, but George finds himself grinning from ear to ear (even though he really can't fulfill that expression) at Hermione Granger saying fuck and wringing her hands together as though Ron's head was in between them.

She blushes and then stands, motions toward the door – _We have to get going, George_ – so George gulps down the rest of the potion, thanking her for including the mouth freshener. Snagging the work robes hanging off of the chair and ignoring Hermione's somewhat disgusted expression (he hasn't washed them for only a day; really, she's got nothing to be so grossed out about), he bounds down the stairs with Hermione trailing after him.

Later in the day, when they're about to close up, George notices her eyeing the shelf but making no mention of it. He wonders if she'll one day realize that this_ is_ only a joke shop and even though he hates Ron for thinking Hermione's wasting herself in here, he's also thought of it himself. She's a wonderful asset, sure, and there's no denying that her brains have helped develop some of the more popular products, but he suspects that she's here mainly to keep him from losing his bloody mind. He could manage without her, he supposes, but the mere thought of no longer having someone around, especially someone who understood him as well as she did, puts his brain in a bind.

He hears her say good night, which pulls him out of his thoughts. Waving at her and smiling, he almost considers asking her to stay for supper, but then shuts his mouth up like a door on a hinge and watches her leave.

* * *

**One Year Earlier – A Week After Fred's Funeral **

It's so cold for June, she thinks, as a chill wind sweeps up from the pond near the Burrow. Or maybe it's just grief, she thinks somewhat theatrically, as if grief could change the weather patterns and throw the entire world into some backwards whirlwind.

Or maybe it can, Hermione muses. Maybe it's some sort of magic that she's never heard of, some sort of magic that only Dumbledore would have been able to understand and explain.

She shakes the thought off with a quick flick of her head and continues to stare at the water. It's been almost a year to the day since she's seen this part of the Weasley's property and the sight of it fills her with an ache she knows will not go away anytime soon. She thinks how strange it is to be back here so suddenly, as if she's still stuck in that fugitive mindset, jumping whenever there's a noise, bracing herself for an attack that will not come. She's not the only one; she notices that Harry no longer sleeps alone and that Ron has taken to flying his broom over the orchards, perhaps reveling in the aloneness and the freedom of being able to fly without worry.

Hermione hears a rustle behind her; she cracks her neck in the process of whipping her head around, only to see that it's George coming out of the barley, carrying a tied handkerchief.

"I brought some food. You should eat."

Without another word, George sits down next to her and opens up the cloth, placing a sandwich and a bottle of Butterbeer next to her.

"Aren't _you_ going to eat?" she asks, taking the sandwich and wondering why everything seems to taste so much better now that's she finally safe.

"Already did." But George isn't looking at her so he doesn't fool Hermione at all, but she lets it go and returns to watching the pond.

"I used to come down here with Fred," George says after a long while; Hermione turns her eyes on him and watches as he shreds the grass around him with his fingers. "We came here all the time when we were little. During the summer, mostly, because Mum was going mad in the heat and yelling at us more than usual. So we'd nip down here and play in the water, pretend that there were Grindylows down below us or that there was a mermaid who needed saving. Mind you, back then we didn't know how ugly they actually are; we were only five or six and thought that mermaids would be gorgeous."

George laughs hollowly, even though Hermione's certain that his laugh would have sounded better had Fred been there to interject. Hermione grabs one of his hands and squeezes it, thinking for a moment, with an inward silly grin, that holding hands with George has become a commonplace occurrence. He looks startled but makes no move to pull away and continues.

"And one time we're down there pretending that we've got to fight off a whole pack of Grindylows, you know, throwing rocks down at the reeds and yelling when something brushed up against us. I pick up another rock and go to say something to Fred, ask him what our plan is, and he's not there. He's just disappeared. So I panic, and I'm thrashing about in the water, trying to find him, but the whole pond suddenly seems too big and I'm afraid that I might have hit him with a rock and knocked him out and that he's sinking to the bottom. But then he pops back up from underneath the water and yells 'Gotcha good, Georgie!'."

Hermione doesn't know what to say because she has a feeling that George has never said this to anyone and what do you say to someone when they recall memories that you had no chance of being part of? George hasn't stopped looking at the pond and she wonders if he can see the two of them as they were all of those years ago, when war had only been a childhood game and imaginary Grindylows and being yelled at by their mum were the scariest things in the world.

"So I smacked him good, Hermione, right upside the head, because he'd scared me so badly that it was the only thing I could think of doing. And he never did anything like that again, must have sensed how much it bothered me, and over the years, I fell under the impression that I'd never have to feel the way I did when I was six years old."

George shuts his eyes tightly and Hermione places her head on his shoulder, still holding his hand and ignoring the desperate, heady urge to cry. He wraps an arm around her waist and without any words, they sit there until the sun disappears underneath the horizon.

* * *

**Ten Months Earlier – At A Post War Memorial**

In the half-moonlight of the hallway, it is almost possible to imagine that George doesn't look like Fred at all. The clean hole on the side of his head is the least jarring of the differences; if anything, the largest difference would be the fact that George's entire face has morphed since Fred's died. His cheeks have hollowed out from an absence of food and his eyes have deadened from the presence of liquor. If he smiles, it's an affected one, painted on in careless movements.

George is waiting in the hallway, unable to move, suddenly paralyzed by the very idea of hearing a Ministry official publicly announce the dead. Fred's name will be near the bottom, he knows this, and he's been waiting and waiting for the name to ring out across the courtyard. He can't block out the voice, magically enhanced and booming out over the trees and the grass. George wonders where Hermione is, if she realizes that he's left, if she's still standing there with Ron, her tears silently tracking down her face. He wants to find her, but he's trapped by that voice and he can't stand up.

They're on the Ls right now; George hears Remus and Tonks' names called out. Teddy Lupin's probably with Harry, crying in Harry's arms because the voice is too loud, not because his parents are gone and he won't know them.

He feels a hand on his shoulders; he looks up to see Hermione standing above him. They do not say anything and George wonders if Hermione's simply perceptive enough to know that he doesn't want to talk or if she cannot think of anything to say.

Without thinking he pulls her into an embrace and waits for Fred's name to ricochet into the darkened hallway. He wants Hermione to stop the sound from entering this place but when he looks to her, just as they end the Vs, she says, "Fred would want you to hear it, George."

So the name pounds out into the room and rips into George's chest and he thinks that it's that day at the pond all over again, panic and inhuman fear coursing through his body until Fred had reappeared. He wants to see Fred walk across the lawn now and announce that he's just played the greatest prank in history, fooled all of these dunces into thinking he was dead when he'd really been having a go at all of those Death Eaters on the run. But there's not going to be anyone to march across the grass with that telltale spring in his step and it's high time that George finally came to terms with it, even though every time he thinks that Fred it's like a hammer's been slammed into his head.

He keeps his hold on Hermione and she says something that he doesn't hear, her voice so faint behind the drumming in his ears. She says it again, louder.

"I know he's proud of you, George."

And George gives his best attempt to smile, because it's Hermione sitting next to him and she's wearing that same look on her face that she wore when he handed her the eulogy. It's a look that he likens to longing, not a romantic longing, but a compassionate longing, a longing to understand so that she can help. And George doesn't care if she doesn't understand him, even though he's fairly certain that she does, because George doesn't need her to. He just needs her around.

* * *

**Seven Months Earlier – At Hermione's Flat**

Hermione hears a small pop of Apparition outside of her window and then there's a knock at the door. She hadn't expected anyone but perhaps it's George; he had mentioned stopping by earlier in order to check out the accounting files she currently has strewn across her dining table.

But when she opens up the door, it's not George at all, but Draco Malfoy standing on her landing, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Malfoy." Hermione cannot think of anything else to say. What in Merlin's name do you say to a boy you once hated? Hermione now feels something that is closer to pity, for she's been to the Malfoy's trials and she's seen them reduced to public nuisances, as the Wizarding community stripped them of their money and their pride, unable, she thought, to forgive them.

"Granger," he says and Hermione notes that his voice is much more pleasant when he's not jeering. He is much taller than her as well, she realizes, and he towers over her in the doorway. She invites him in.

"You may sit wherever you like."

She is pleased to see that he hardly grimaces at all when he seats himself in a cushy armchair; instead, he seems to relax somewhat.

"You're wondering why I'm here." He doesn't pose this as a question and his words seem to hang in the air between them. Hermione can only agree.

"I'm here, Granger, to apologize."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm not here to fiddle around with niceties, Granger, and I'm sure that you'd rather have this visit end sooner rather than later. I'll explain as quickly as I can and then I'll leave; you probably won't even see me again, unless, of course, we someday see each other at King's Cross."

Hermione nods. "I suppose that's plausible."

Malfoy continues, staring at a spot approximately near her left eye. "My aunt tortured you." He says it with such finality and regret that, for a moment, Hermione can hardly believe that the words have left his mouth.

"You were brought to my house, you and Potter and Weasley, and when my father asked me to identify you…"

Hermione remembers it vividly and she thinks that it might be best to remind him of that, but she's transfixed by this confession that she cannot call her lips into action.

"Granger, I hated all of you in school. I hated everything about you and those dimwitted idiots, hated how much better you seemed to find yourselves. But when you were brought to my house that night, I can honestly say that I didn't hate any of you. I saw all of you as I was: terrified, unsure, afraid – perhaps less so than myself – to die."

Draco Malfoy makes eye contact with her now and it's almost unbearable to see the remorse in his face.

"I'm not brave, Granger. If I were, if I had been, I might have lied then. I might have told them that I didn't know who you were, even though it may not have mattered in the end."

He pauses and looks down at his hands. Hermione takes the moment to wipe her eyes; even if Draco Malfoy is baring his soul to her, she cannot cry in front of him.

His voice breaks out again. "_You_ were brave, Granger," Malfoy says, nearly choking on her name, and Hermione's head reels from the words. He looks up, remorse once again painting his features and she finds it such a strange emotion to see on Draco Malfoy's face. Hermione wonders then what Malfoy's life might have been like if he hadn't hated all of them, if he'd befriended them and grown up with them. She knows they'll never be friends now, that today will truly be the last time she'll ever see him, ever speak to him. She realizes this with some sort of sadness; such a strange reaction, she thinks, but she cannot help the overwhelming sensation of loss as she looks at Draco Malfoy's pointed face, no longer marred by his characteristic sneer. She supposes that he's actually somewhat handsome, a thought that had entered her eleven year old brain when she'd first seen him on the train; and now, for the first time since that moment on the train years ago, she smiles at Draco Malfoy. He hadn't returned the smile then, but he does now, a small, albeit weak smile that Hermione knows she will think of later on.

"I came here to say something else, Granger."

She nods.

"The only thing I've ever done that you and Potter and all of those other bloody Gryffindors would have considered 'good'," he pauses to smirk and Hermione finds herself smiling, "is that, when they brought you to my house that night," and he looks at her again, "I can honestly say that I never wanted any of you to die."

* * *

**Four Months Earlier – At George's Flat**

"You coming up, love?"

The girl giggles as she ascends the staircase; when she reaches the top of the stairs, she stumbles dramatically into George's outstretched arms. "Oops," she says, smiling up at him with vapid eyes. "What are you going to do with me now?"

George kisses her, mostly to shut her up; he wonders briefly if he actually knows her name, realizes he does not, and pushes the thought away as he runs his hands underneath her shirt. She's one of many. Sometimes he brings home Muggle girls that think the hole on the side of his head is a mark of valor, some sort of award for his bravery. He's often considered telling them that he'd had it blasted off by a former teacher of his or lie and say that he chopped it off like that Muggle painter he's heard Hermione talk about.

Mostly, he brings home witches that visit from neighboring countries because he doesn't want to bother with any of the girls he knows from Hogwarts. He figures that they'll figure him out much easier than the Americans or the French or the Germans; the brilliancy of sleeping with strangers is that they tend to skip the questions.

This one, however, seems to fancy the notion of asking questions; perhaps she thinks it's quaint or necessary before one has sex. George doesn't want to hear it and whenever she mentions something about the blocked mirrors or his ear or the sudden horrifying amount of Firewhiskey bottles collected on his counter he takes off another piece of her clothing in hopes of shutting her up. He supposes that he's frightening her as he rips off her clothes and continues to ignore the now frantic questions that fall from her lips.

"George," she says breathlessly, and he stops his assault on her mouth. She looks bewildered and suddenly so much younger than he had thought when he'd found her at the pub. She doesn't get it, he thinks, doesn't know what the fuck's the matter with him and he's probably scared her shitless with this obvious disdain for her well-being.

"Yeah, Melanie, you should probably go." He surprises himself in knowing her name, but figures that he's known it all along.

"Thanks, George. I guess, well…. I hope you…" She starts and stops several times and George knows that she wants to say something, perhaps she wants to apologize or offer words of comfort. He attempts a smile and she smiles back.

"I'll see you around," she says, but he knows that he won't ever see her again and she knows this as well. She leaves and the door clicks behind her.

As George tries to sleep, he listens to the sounds of Diagon Alley. The place can sometimes come alive at the strangest times of night: there are the familiar sounds of shops beginning to clean for the following day, cauldrons clinking against the floor, barstools scraping across wood, occasional crash of a dish.

Turning over in his bed, George thinks that if nights such as these could be translated into proper words, no sound could possibly imprison his hopelessness within its syllables.

* * *

**Two Months Earlier – At the Burrow**

And so the start of the night begins. It's George's birthday today; Fred's as well, Hermione mentally reminds herself. But there's nothing celebratory about tonight; if anything, it's like a second funeral. She hardly notices it anymore, but it is here now, that discomfiting reminder of his absence. It is noticeable in the strangest of places: in the small bedroom at her flat, the sheets tossed aside haphazardly in the middle of the night as she dreams of the war; in the rough texture of the wood in George's kitchen, the floor scarred and stained by nights spent drinking Firewhiskey until the lights blurred; in the battered books in her library, their spines cracking and their pages splitting open as she tries to drown out the sudden sadness with words.

Tonight, they eat Molly's dinner with a pained and affected silence, their laughter disjointed and broken, conversations held only to keep the stillness from engulfing them. Hermione glances up at George and sees in his face the devastating and frightening look of regression, of falling back into the misery of the past months. She's wanted so badly to help George, to make him laugh, but she cannot see how she's helped at all.

Molly stays up long enough to sing George Happy Birthday, but she leaves with Arthur soon after, crying into her handkerchief. The rest of them do not know what to do, so they drink, tossing back every sort of liquor they can find, their throats burning with a flickering happiness. They laugh too loudly, their voices caricatures of their actual cadence, their mouths open too wide, their bodies too willing to find comfort in someone else's.

Ginny and Harry cling to each other, as does Bill and Fleur and Luna and Dean. But Hermione cannot bring herself to seek solace in Ron's arms and she ignores the presence of doubt in her mind, hoping that she may still salvage their relationship, even though he's rarely home what with his and Harry's Auror training. She stares at George, who tosses another shot of Firewhiskey into his mouth, and she wants nothing more than to bring Fred back.

It's not possible, nags her brain, and she nearly slams her head into the table to stop her inner voice from talking reason. It doesn't recognize how she's come to this understanding with George, an understanding that has him coming back to her flat during late hours, an understanding that ensures both of them a safety and a comfort in the other. Hermione has so many memories of George in her flat, telling her stories about Fred; she can remember exactly the inflections in his voice, the fondness, the sadness in his eyes. She dreams it, she breathes it, she speaks it; these images in her head erupting so suddenly and so painfully that she cries herself to sleep on most nights. And then the memories fall into others, memories of her mother's smile and her father's laugh, the way their eyes had slid out of focus when she'd erased herself.

Hermione stands up abruptly, nearly knocking over her chair. Ron looks over at her, concerned, but she waves him away, knowing she'll regret it later, but unable to properly care.

The night air feels foreign on her face; she's really quite drunk, she realizes. The chill seems to be at war with the burning sensation of alcohol in her body.

"I was beginning to wonder when you'd leave."

George appears beside her suddenly, startling her. He places a hand on the small of her back to steady her.

"We should say hello to him, I think."

Hermione nods and links arms with George. They walk down to Fred's grave, both of them tripping over roots and silencing incurable laughter as they do so. Their hands are laced together, as they often are nowadays; Hermione thinks of it as a comfort, something she might have done with Harry. She doesn't mind that George confides in her now, that he's abandoned some of the others and let her in instead, that she is the first person he turns to, that she is the girl he is taking down to visit his brother. He trusts her, she thinks, and he's right to, for she hasn't breathed a word of his condition to anyone, not even Molly, even though she had promised his mother that she would try to help George as best she could.

They stop underneath the tree.

"Happy Birthday, Fred," Hermione says, words slightly slurred. George gives her hand a tight squeeze.

"He didn't leave me any fireworks for this one, Mione."

But Hermione's already pulled out her wand, and as the voice of reason nags her not to do magic while intoxicated, she ignores it, sending sparks of blue and green and red into the air above them. They spell out Happy Birthday and then gently float down to eye level, where they hover above Fred's grave.

"Proper send-off?" she asks.

George looks at her and smiles for the first time that night. He nods. "Proper send-off."

* * *

**End Notes: **I hope this chapter put their relationship into a better perspective. What they have is special and important; they do love each other as friends already, they just haven't ventured into romance. No worries, though, loves! We'll get there. Oh, and what'd you guys think of Draco's little confession? I thought it would be nice to put in something non Hermione-George centric and give you a little taste of what a remorseful Draco Malfoy might be like.

Previews of coming attractions: I'm going to set up a playlist to accompany this fanfic pretty soon, which is a project I'm pretty excited about. Next chapter: Hermione and George take a business trip!


	5. Five: A Business Trip  Part One

**Author's Note: **This story is no longer on hiatus! Thank God, the writer's block has died! I promise to update at least every two weeks, and if that doesn't happen, you guys have my permission to kick me – verbally – in the ass. The second part of this is being written; it was turning out to be too long of a chapter, so I broke them in half.

**Chapter Five: A Business Trip – Part One **

**Mid July 1999**

Hermione is positive that she's dreaming, for the dream is so familiar and so common that she feels as though something is lost if she doesn't dream of it at least once a week.

She's on the floor in that drawing room again, and she's staring up at the ceiling, trying to focus on the wood beams above her. She hears jeering and loud voices but she can't fully make them out because she's on fire, she's sure of it; someone must have set her on fire, for nothing should hurt like this. And then there's Bellatrix Lestrange's face looming over her, her black eyes malicious and gleeful and Hermione wants to spit on her, to rip out all of that mad hair with her bloody fingers.

She feels something on her arm and she wonders briefly if she should be so positive that this is a dream, because the pain in her chest is ripping her body in half and maybe Bellatrix never died, only spent months in hiding, waiting to torture the information out of her, to punish the Mudblood for tricking her. Hermione hears her name again, spoken urgently, and she thinks that it might be Ron or Harry, for they have often found her caught up in this nightmare. But the fire running along her nerves is taking up all of her concentration; she hears Bellatrix scream again, she hears her own pitiful explanation, she sees Malfoy's pale eyes watching her, horrified. She's going to die, she's certain; she will never see her mother and father, she will never see Harry and Ron, she will never see George…

Gasping, she sits up straight in bed, two hands gripping her biceps, shaking her. George is sitting next to her, his face hard and concerned.

"You're crying," he says bluntly and she almost wants to laugh at his straightforwardness. Instead, she launches herself at him, burying her head into the crook between his shoulder and neck, breathing him in.

"_Fuck_, Hermione. You need to tell people you have dreams like this," George says against her hair, tightening his grip around her, and she's never felt so safe and confused in her entire life. Her head is demanding that she wish for Ron, but her traitorous damn feelings ignore it, relishing in the fact that it's George instead.

"Why are you here?"

He laughs and pulls her away for a moment; she realizes – and is slightly disgusted that she cares – that she must look dreadful in all of her tear-stained, bushy-haired glory.

"Are you saying that you wish I hadn't come?" he teases, his voice rough, probably from calling her name, but gentle. He rubs a thumb under her eyes and she swears that something drops from her throat into her stomach. He cradles her head in his hands, the pads of his fingers sweeping across her cheeks and she's stopped breathing. She wonders if he's gotten closer to her or if she's just scooting closer to him. It feels so right to have him here, as it has all of those other times, when they'd held onto each other in the middle of the night. She had promised him, all those months ago, that he would not go through this alone and she now knows for certain that her promise had perhaps never been made out of obligation or her irritating sense for what was right, but because she had felt then what she was feeling now.

His mouth is _right_ there and she's shocked by how badly she wants him to close the distance between them and place his lips on top of hers. Her hands are still around his neck and his around hers. They're locked in a disarmingly intimate embrace; Hermione can feel his breath ghost across her skin.

The shock of it causes Hermione to jerk back, unwrapping herself from within his arms. She laughs pathetically, her voice shaky and brittle and nervous. "No, I'm glad you're here. Just confused as to _why_."

For a moment, her brain tricks her into thinking that George looks disappointed, but that couldn't be, for she's not even close to being like the girls that stumble up the stairs with him, their swingy blonde hair swishing against their shimmery clothes. She's practically his sister and their embrace meant nothing except a gesture of comfort. Irrationally, she's suddenly so jealous and angry that she can barely think.

"In case you've forgotten, Harry and Ronniekins are leaving today. I certainly didn't want to show up to the Burrow alone and I thought you might want an escort," George explains, winking at her as he stands up.

"_Shit_!" Hermione exclaims, throwing the covers off and leaping to her feet.

"Merlin's Beard, Hermione Granger! You _do_ swear!"

She glares at him, still unsure of how to handle those intense feelings of jealousy – and dare she think it – _desire_. "Give me five minutes, George. I need to get dressed."

"I could always stay and help," he says suggestively and she's positive she's blushing like a flighty lunatic, for the idea of getting undressed in front of George is doing weird, fluttery things to her body. _Sweet Circe, what is happening to me? _She tries to say something clever and fails, her mouth sputtering and then snapping shut.

"Nah, I suppose not." He shrugs nonchalantly, chuckling. "Perhaps another time?"

Hermione takes that moment to throw a shoe at him, and he ducks out the door, cackling like an idiot. As she listens to his footsteps in her kitchen, she stares at the closed door and barely grasps onto the idea that she's confusedly, remarkably, _deliciously_ happy. She can't remember the last time she'd felt like this and she's almost dizzy with it. She feels as though the war had never happened, as if her nightmare had never occurred.

* * *

George is fairly certain that he's going to hell.

He nearly kissed his brother's girlfriend and he's currently resisting the overwhelming temptation to punch Ron in the nose. His conscience is really unsure of what to do with itself right now.

The Burrow is even more crowded than usual; nearly everyone that Harry and Ron have come in contact with is crammed into the kitchen, dying to give them the proper goodbye party. From what George can discern, Ron hasn't even said hello to Hermione; it is George's best guess that Ron's only response to this situation is to ignore it. Harry has consistently looked bewildered by this development between his two best friends. He consistently glances over at George, hoping that he might offer some insight, but George's only response is a much practiced shrug.

His mind is somewhere else entirely. He can't stop thinking about this morning; he's positive that she wanted to kiss him, that her mouth so near his own was not something his mind had cooked up as a passing fancy. She'd jumped as soon as he had accepted that he was going to kiss her, as if she had read his mind and leapt away to rescue their friendship. Does she truly love Ron, he wonders? Is that why she broke away?

His mum is saying something over the din of the crowd as she places a large seven layer cake in the center of the table. George can just make out Hermione's face among the others, her hand on Harry's shoulder, beaming that smile of hers, the one he believes contains the entire world.

He should let her be, George thinks. He should allow her that much. She's already given up so much of her time, lost moments she will never get back. She probably would have retrieved her parents from Australia much earlier had she not felt that he would have fallen apart without her. She and Ron may never have fought; right now they might be wrapped in each other's arms, already counting down the days to his return.

"To Ron and Harry!" comes Luna's voice above the crowd, heaving a goblet of dark liquid above her head, her far-away eyes alight. Everyone cheers and throws up their drinks; he can feel droplets of champagne shower down on his hair.

George realizes that losing Hermione to Ron is comparable to losing Fred. This shocks him, that he now finds the two of them so comparable, so irreplaceable. George looks out at the crowd in his mum's kitchen, at Ron blowing out the candles and Hermione looking over at him apprehensively, and he wants nothing more than to leave.

"I'm sure they'll make up soon," says Charlie, sneaking up from his left. "Not sure why, but she's not Ron's biggest fan right now. Hardly a surprise actually, given that he's always been a bit of a git." In his hands are two glasses of Firewhiskey; he takes George's empty glass out of his hand and replaces it with the new one.

"I don't get what she sees in him," is out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Charlie lifts an eyebrow and quirks his head at the pair, as if the angle will give him better access to any insight. "Probably because they've known each other since they were kids. That's my suspicion. Honestly, I never thought the two of them should get together. Too volatile of a relationship, if you ask me." He chuckles. "But that's not why you're asking, is it?"

"When did you get so insightful?" George snaps, annoyed at being found out.

"When did you start caring about who Hermione dates?" Charlie retorts.

Hermione emerges from the crowd then, smiling at the pair of them, not noticing that George is scowling or perhaps not caring. She settles in next to George, wrapping her hand around his cup of Firewhiskey, tossing her head back to throw down the drink. The provocation of seeing her slender neck sets him off, and images of kissing his way down her neck suddenly explodes in his head, of sliding the straps of her dress off her shoulders, following their descent with his tongue -

Yep, he is _definitely_ going to hell.

She shudders, which is irritatingly adorable, and then returns the glass to his hand. "Hi Charlie!" she says brightly, who has been watching this seamless example of comfort with a giant grin across his face.

"Hey there, Hermione." Charlie scoops her up in a hug. "How are you doing?"

Her face pales slightly when he sets her down again and she purses her lips in a thin, tight line. In the few seconds it takes for her to respond, she glances over at Ron a total of five times. Charlie definitely notices and he grimaces at George over her head. Ron had definitely not said much of anything to her and both brothers know that it's driving the poor girl insane.

"Oh, you know, I'm doing fine," she says dismissively, waving her hand around in the air. "Helping George mostly."

"Speaking of which, I've got a business proposition for the two of you."

George tightens his grip on the glass and tries not to look at Hermione. He doesn't need to see her to know that her eyes are huge in her face and that she looks frantic, as though the wheels in her head are not processing this information quickly enough.

"What would this business proposition entail?" Her voice shakes only a little, and he wonders if she's thinking what he is. If this business proposition includes time away from London, time in a hotel where he's fairly certain they _will _kiss if she gets as close to him again.

Charlie swirls the contents of his glass, looking into it thoughtfully before speaking. "I know you two have got your hands full right now and that this might not seem to be the best business venture, but hear me out. I've got loads of mates back in Romania, begging me to bring back stuff from the shop. You two have no idea how much they love the products; it's all they bloody talk about sometimes. So I was thinking it would be brilliant for the both of you to pop over to Romania for a week or so, feel it out, see whether there's a genuine interest. Then maybe you could set up some sort of delivery system; Hermione's got the brains for it, I'm sure she could devise something both efficient and inexpensive."

George sneaks a look at Hermione, who is blushing fiercely, as she always does when she receives a compliment. Charlie looks to George for approval.

"I won't lie; I've definitely thought of this before. Never had Hermione back then, so it hardly seemed feasible. But I'm warning you, Charlie, this isn't something that's going to get done in several days. Completing orders, figuring out the best way to transport them –

"Use bloody owls, George," Charlie says impatiently.

"I'm not sure I want hundreds of owls circling my flat, and I'm sure nearly all of the residents of Diagon Alley will agree with me. I'm also hesitant to leave the shop unattended for that long."

Hermione interjects. "You could always leave me to look after the shop. I don't think you'll need me in Romania; you'd just be figuring out business plans with Charlie. I'd be the third wheel."

"I want you there, Mione, so don't argue with me. I'm a useless sack of dung without you."

She blushes again, but nods her affirmation.

"So, it's settled then?" asks Charlie, a happy grin gracing his face. It strikes George then that he's not the only member of his family affected by Fred's death; he hasn't seen any of them smile as Charlie is now for a very long time.

"I suppose so. I can get Lee to run it for me for a couple of days; he's been dying to get in there, actually. When do you expect us to leave?"

"As soon as you'd like. We've got comfortable tents you two can use. You won't be dodging dragon fire for the entirety of your stay, I assure you." He winks, then laughs when Hermione mutters, "Bloody well hope not."

Ron roars in laughter from behind them; it's obvious he's knocked back quite a few shots of Firewhiskey. George doesn't miss Hermione's eye-roll before she turns around to see what the fuss is all about. He and Harry are doubled over, slapping each other's backs, the partners in crime. George wonders if Hermione has ever felt left out.

Charlie places a hand on his shoulder while Hermione is still turned around and whispers in his ear, "She'll figure it out, mate. She's a smart bird."

Hermione shakes her head and turns back to them. As soon as her eyes are on him, Charlie speaks at an almost comically loud level. "You two owl me with the best date. I swear you won't regret this." He winks at George and takes his leave, saying he needs to congratulate Ron before he's too drunk to understand basic forms of communication.

"George, you know that Lee won't be able to run the shop for more than a day. He's been working non-stop at the Quidditch supply store up the road."

"What do you suggest I do?"

"I really don't understand why I have to go. It'd be much simpler to let me stay behind and look after the place – "

"Hermione. I already said I want you to go with me. Your brains are gonna be loads of help; Charlie and I will just sit around and concoct bullshit plans if we don't have someone to rein them in."

"Don't interrupt me, George Weasley." Her face is high in color and he's very tempted to kiss the scowl right off of her mouth. "You know it's more practical my way."

"And I'm saying I'm not a fan of your way. You're coming with me."

She throws up her hands in exasperation. "Fine. Just hire one of the girls you bring home; they've all seen the shop often enough, I'm sure _one _of them can muster up enough intelligence to run it for a few days."

After she's said it, she claps her hands over her mouth in horror. George thinks that he might have detected something like jealousy and hurt among her annoyance and sarcasm, but that doesn't make sense and it's going to allow him to hope, so he pushes the thought from his mind.

"That won't be necessary, Mione. Nor would it be practical; I'm not even sure if those women could differentiate between a love potion and a Skiving Snack Box." She smiles as he says this, as those their stupidity is brightening her day. "I'll sort it out with Lee. Perhaps Gin could help out for a bit. She loves the shop; I'm sure she'll keep it intact while we're away."

They don't say anything for a moment as they survey the crowd in the kitchen. Apart from Ron and Harry laughing in the corner, the party and its noise has died down considerably. The guests are beginning to summon their cloaks and make their rounds of goodbyes.

"Fred would like us doing this, wouldn't he?" Hermione asks, leaning against the counter, her arms crossed casually across her chest.

"Yeah, I really think he would."

She turns to look at him, reaching up to brush the droplets of champagne and Firewhiskey from his hair. "I'm sorry about the comment on the girls," she says almost shyly.

He laughs. "You're right about them. Don't apologize."

Hermione then looks conspiratorially at him, her eyes mischievous and playful. "You know, Ron hasn't spoken to me all night. I was wondering if you might have a Canary Cream stashed up your sleeve."

"Why, Miss Granger, I am all astonishment!" George clasps his hands to his chest, feigning sudden and frenetic heart palpitations. Hermione laughs loudly. "I thought Prefects such as yourself disapproved of the childish products I supply."

She smirks. "I've changed my tune over the years, I'll have you know. Now are you going to get me a Canary Cream or not?"

* * *

**End Notes**: Gah, I love them! Hope y'all love them as much – if not more – as I do! Sorry for the split in the chapter; I'm writing the second half right now. Coming up: Hermione has a long needed chat with her mum, Romania is very hot, and their tent is much too small ;)

Check out these songs: Video Games by Lana del Ray and Desire by Ryan Adams. They're a preview of the playlist for these two!

And of course, please review! It's lovely to hear what you guys think of Hermione and George's progresing "friendship".


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